


oceans of red

by GMKVH612



Series: blending quadrants is an art form [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: (mostly), Blending Quadrants, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Face-Sitting, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Oral Sex, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pale-Red Vacillation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quadrant Confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 08:13:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12553112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GMKVH612/pseuds/GMKVH612
Summary: Karkat "quadrants are bullshit" Vantas wants many things, and all of them are Gamzee Makara.(Loose sequel to "there's nowhere else you'd rather be".)





	oceans of red

You're sprawled on the couch, waiting for Gamzee to come back home from a small errand. The exact reason why he left is slipping your mind right now – you have more important things to focus on, like the way your bulge wraps around your wrist as you stroke your nub with two fingers, recalling his hair gripped in your hand, the soft dips in the small of his back, his sweet whimpering moans at the thrusts of your bulge – one thing you do know is that you want him _now_. You keep an ear out, hoping it won't be too long before he's back home.

~♋~♑~

You smile when you hear the front lock beep, followed by the sound of bags being set on the floor. Your favorite troll in the whole Alternian empire lets out a breathy sigh (that goes straight to your nook, holy _shit_ ) as he closes the front door behind him.

He calls your name, already walking upstairs. You straighten up and your grin widens when you spot him in the doorway. You see his nostrils flare as they catch scent of you, and you can't help but rub yourself a little faster; his eyes drop from yours to where you're stroking yourself, beads of red material already rolling down from your bulge. His breath hitches audibly.

Before you know it, he's striding towards you. He pauses to shed his clothes, and you think you hear fabric rip, but he's reached you too soon for you to worry about it, turns you around and settles you back down kneeling over his lap. He crushes his lips to yours, and there's barely time for a hint of pale pre-pailing compared to your usual. This time your blended quadrants only really show in the way you're gentler with each other than purely concupiscent partners would be; his tongue already brushes yours as he spreads your legs wider and grinds the heel of his hand on your nook.

You hum encouragingly, hips following suit. He seems a little absent, eyes glazed over as you nibble at his lower lip, and you wonder why. You're about to ask when he lets go of you to lie down, sliding between your legs, and presses an eager kiss to your nook that has you gasping – it wasn't even open-mouthed, just a peck, holy fuck _how_ does it feel so good?

You ask him if he's sure that's how he wants to do it, doesn't seem like there's much in it for him, but he cuts you off, nuzzling your thigh as he replies that "'course it is, my reddest sugarcrab. Don't go all up and worrying about _my_ fun when yours will be my motherfucking pleasure for sure." You're vaguely embarrassed when you start _dripping_ , as much for his words as for the tickling feeling from his breath on your thigh, but the embarrassment goes away soon enough when he fits his mouth to you, holding your hips in place.

You keep your bulge at bay with one hand, not wanting it to be in the way when you look at him. You lock eyes with him and your breath comes heavy as he starts giving your pleasure nub soft little licks that you'd call shy if you didn't know him better than that. He's just taking his time with you, for now going as slow and gentle as you can bear.

~♋~♑~

Indeed, he soon gets adventurous with his tongue, going from soft little licks to boldly tracing what feels to you like every single nerve in your body. At one point he begins purring and his lovely lips wrap around your nub, sucking lovingly – the soft vibration is going to drive you fucking crazy. He waits until you're rolling your hips (you've started panting and whimpering long since) to let go and caress your nub with a hard lick that has you shivering; leaves you no time to recover before he slides his tongue into you, shallow at first then tasting you deeper and deeper. He's stretching himself so hard you actually feel the strain he's putting on his muscles there, and you clutch reflexively at your bulge because _holy fucking hell_ , that's _so hot_ and you're reeling.

He manages to drag his fangs lightly against your nub at the same time his tongue flirts with your seedflap – you have no idea _how_ but you're not about to complain, you're not that ungrateful – and your eyes roll back into your head. You groan, your nook starts to throb around his tongue, your muscles strain; you sigh and relax a little, begin to smile at him – and he just _stops_ , the horrible _tease_. His tongue fondles your nub one last time on its way out (it's very much _not_ shy this time, and you shudder from it) and he holds you there.

You love him, and he knows it, but he _really_ is pushing his advantage right now.

You try nudging him with your hips; he keeps too tight a hold on your waist with claws too sharp for that to work in your favor.  
You try letting out the longest, neediest whines you can muster in hopes that he'll _get the hint_ , relent and go back to pleasuring you with his mouth – which he does _so well_ (your nook spasms at the memory, _oh_ ) – you want him, want to feel him, _need_ him; he only _looks_ at you. His eyes sparkle in a way that has you thinking he's… finding it _funny_ to see you like that.  
You try asking him to carry on, with words; it seems that you cannot get more out of your voicebox than trills and breathless strings of _please Gamzee please_ 's, all tinged with disbelief, indignation, and most of all _want_. You dimly recall reading something about the stages of grief and you're pretty sure you've got them wrong there, but you're past giving a fuck, you know they're about right for what you're experiencing now. You're also beginning to feel completely ridiculous, and realize you're hoping he's thinking the state you're in _hot_ instead.

For all the begging you're keeping up, your voice now cut off by so many demanding moans and chirps you're not even sure any words are getting through, he keeps still. All of your attempts to get him to _move_ , do _something_ , are utterly useless; you're trying _so hard_ and still he does _nothing_. You whine high-pitched in desperation when you feel his lips, still pressed close to your nook's, curl up in a smile – you briefly think you would be pissed if you didn't need him so badly right now.

You give up on trying and resort to gripping your restless bulge, breathing hard. You know (just as Gamzee knows) that it won't be of much use, you've never really been able to make yourself come only from that, but it's taking at least _some_ of the edge off the almost painful wait. At least you hope like hell that it's just a wait, gods, you might _die_ if he actually stopped.

That's when he decides he's had enough of leaving you hanging and rams his tongue up your nook, startling you enough that you jump a little and, relieved, let out a long ragged moan. He doesn't stop this time, working you deep and fast and eager. With you so wanting and strung up, it doesn't take him long to bring you to your climax; you clench, throwing your head back, and feel oceans of red ooze from your bulge between your fingers, stream down your nook. He keeps giving you little sucks on your nub through all of it, and you look down just in time to see him close his eyes, his paint a smudged mess, _fuck_ he looks so beautiful with your color in splatters all over his face–

You topple over backwards, spent, and are immensely grateful that his thighs are there to catch you. His mouth leaves your nook with a soft wet noise, and you think he's done with you – _you_ certainly are done enough, light-headed and shivery – but. He's. _Not_. He takes hold of your bulge with both hands, bends just a little (your love is too flexible for his own good, holy fuck), and brings it to his mouth to suck on, making you whine again.

It feels… fucking amazing, at once _way too much_ and _absolutely not enough_. At that point you're barely even aware that noises are coming from your throat, and there's a wetness on your cheeks (are you crying? Oh god, you're definitely crying) – all of which you shrug off; it's part of a background that you're happy to ignore, focusing instead on his tongue. It's fucking _divine_ , if he keeps at it you might start believing in the mirthful messiahs yourself, you're feeling _so good_ – it's too much, but you'd give the world for him to keep sucking you off anyway.

Something cold slides against your back and over your hip, caresses a grubscar with its tip, and you belatedly realize that you can _retaliate_. You let one of your hands fall somewhere near it, which is enough – his bulge twines with your fingers and you can give it erratic squeezes. You're unable to do much more, but you still feel very vindicated each time you pump and feel him respond right after, your bulge happy in the tightened grasp of his fingers and the restrained clench of his teeth.

~♋~♑~

He doesn't even need to touch your nook once. After maybe a dozen of your squeezes you surprise yourself, whole body arching away from his and yowling. Your nook squelches, pushing out more material, and you'd love to look at his face all red again but your body won't let you, thrashing as it is. The feel of his tongue on your bulge is simply the _best_ , you don't know _how_ he's doing it, it's probably illegal, but holy fuck he's giving you _so much_ and you ride high on the thought of him, voice breaking mid-scream.

You slump back down, sated, thinking he has to be done with you this time; you soon learn that you're wrong. He picks you up by the hips to sit back up (you trill when you see his face, he's so pretty, you _love him_ ) and lets you cling to him for dear life as he _claims_ you, cold bulge quickly slick from your own red stretching deep into you, warming up, filling you up. You're still soaring way too high and happy to do anything about it but trill again.

He can talk this time, mouth unoccupied. His voice is low and husky; you can't keep track of the words too well, only just enough to know he's professing undying love and unbridled passion in your ear. Your throat is dry and you don't even have it in you to moan anymore, let alone talk, so you cling and chirp and purr at him, hoping it's enough for him to know you love what he's doing to you and you love him, too.

It's not too long before his hips buck up urgently into yours twice and you feel his bulge twitch hard against your walls, spilling for you; feel your nook sucking it all in to where it's safe, ridges sealing your entrance. You're vaguely aware that he's kissing you, and you try to kiss back as best you can with all your muscles turned to jelly.

~♋~♑~

You hear a groan as you both collapse, can't tell whose throat it came from. You closed your eyes at some point and can't muster the energy to open them again. He moves under you – and in you, his ridges are still keeping you plugged with his bulge, likely will for a while yet – and the warm, soft weight of a blanket settles over you both.

There'll be plenty of time to empty later – is it drone season yet? You're a little hazy on exact dates right now, so you let the thought go; it doesn't really matter anyway. What you want _now_ is cuddles, and fuck if Gamzee isn't happy to give them to you. He's purring up a storm – a quiet, contented storm – and pressing soft kisses to the top of your head. A tired sigh goes past your lips into the crook of his neck. You decide you'll have time enough to worry about everything else when you wake up; for the moment, you're happy to let yourself drift off to sleep in his arms, held tight and safe and loved.


End file.
